


Peaceful in the Eye of a Hurricane

by Thatkindghost



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 04:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16825078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindghost/pseuds/Thatkindghost
Summary: Donald runs into Magica De Spell on a late night junk food run months after the Shadow war. After this, Donald can't seem to stop running into her. Is this a chance for redemption, or a recipe for betrayal?





	1. Chapter 1

He rebuilds the houseboat. He does it slowly, piece by piece, splinter by splinter, and sometimes he’ll see Scrooge standing at the sliding glass door with this look on his face that he knows means _come inside_ , but he doesn’t, can't bring himself to. He’s not sure why he’s hung onto this boat so long, repairing it even after it had sunk to the bottom of the bay during the return of Magica De Spell months ago. The rhythm, the work, its soothes the anxious tension in his shoulders, drawn tight and rigid the moment Scrooge and the boys take off on another Adventure he doesn’t accompany them on. Its steady progress, and it keeps him distracted from the fact he still doesn’t have a job- it's harder now, to track one down. He’d already tried his hand at half the jobs in Duckburg and now everyone was starting to catch wind to his truly awful luck- at least here, working on the boat, he didn’t feel completely useless.

It’s late, somewhere between 2am and sunrise, and he should be asleep, he’d been working on the boat under huge flood lights, insomnia crawling up his spine and nightmares nipping at his heels. He cracks his neck and puts down the hammer, fingers stiff and aching from his grip on the handle, and heads inside for a break and a soda- which, of course, there is none in the fridge. Darn it Louie, he always got to the good snacks first…

He stands in the kitchen for a long moment, mentally deliberating between sleep and the delicious, mouthwatering taste of a fresh pep… there was a convenience store not to far from here… he snaps up his keys and grabs the spare house key for the front door, locking up behind himself. He winces as he starts his car, noticing only how loud his clunker was now that it was the middle of the night, pulling out of the driveway as softly as possible. He doesnt turn on his headlights until he’s faced carefully away from the house. He flips it to some oldies rock station, drumming his finger on the steering wheel along to a song he used to know all the words to.

He snorts, thinking about how he knows the words to more nursery ryhmes than songs he’d listened to since he was in single digits. Such is the way of a man with three kids.

The rundown old gas station he finds is nothing special, he’d seen hundreds of these before with the same peeling paint, flyers and old sale posters held together by yellowed tape, half the light-up sign flickered out. The fluorescent of the store is a jarring transition from the warm-gold street lamps, casting everything in the store into hyper focus, and Donald was half-convinced he had stepped into another dimension- which, while uncommon, wouldn’t surprise him since he was part of the weirdest family ever. If it was gonna happen to anyone, it would be him, right?

There's a bored cashier at the desk, he’s middle aged maybe, a little closer to fifty than thirty, flipping through a magazine. There's one other person in the store but Donald ignores everything other than the coolers lining the walls containing his coveted prize- he stops before his hand reaches the handle, breath catching as his sense catch up to him. The lights above him drone on, hum like a itch beneath his skin, the cashier flips the page of his magazine and the sound grates on his ears.

She sighs, softly, almost too soft for him to hear but he does anyway and there’s no mistaking that voice. He holds his breath, turns his head slowly, carefully, he can't let her know she’s been spotted- the other patron in the store, she’s a woman, with short black hair cut sharply at her jawline. Donald fumbles for his phone, grabbing at air. He curses himself for forgetting it in the car, biting his cheek, because he was in a small enclosed space with Magica De Spell, the one and only, with no weapons, no way to call for help, and an embarrassing novelty hooters t-shirt on. He was really going to die in a gag gift he’d gotten at his twenty first birthday party. fitting.

He turns, braces himself- because if he’s going down he's not gonna go down easy and thats a promise- Shes holding a can of spaghettios. His brain stutters to a halt. Shes holding a can of spaghettios but its the off brand kind, and she's squinting at the price tag, and her hairs oily and unkempt, and she looks the special sort of shitty that he recognizes because he’d lived it too, when money was tight and the triplets had to live off macaroni and cheese and hamburger helper and the got his third rejection email of the week. she's dressed in black sweatpants and a pink hoodie, the kind of garish pink that both caught your attention and made you want to look away at the same time, and there's a line of tension in the curve of her frown, a promise of hardships in the dull feathers beneath her eyes.

damn it- fuck- now he felt sympathetic for her! Fuck! He breathes out his nose hard, cursing himself for leaving his dumb stupid car for a can of Pep and digs his fingernails into his palm for a long moment, trying to decide what to do. Magica rubs her face and there's a worn out slump to her shoulders, and puts the can back.

He takes a step towards her, because he’s the stupidest person alive and is definitely going to be killed and buried in this dumb shirt, and she stiffens carefully. He sees that, the moment she notices him, and then he sees the moment she recognizes who he is. She spins to face him, tense and wide eyed, holding her hands up in front of her defensively. Purple sparks from her fingertips and he feels his feathers bristle, bunching up around his throat, but he doesn't back down. He tries to be casual, actually, forcing his shoulder to slacken, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jacket. There’s a tense silence.

“They inflate the prices here,” He says, stopping beside her to look at the mediocre aisle. There's always one, in every convenience store, that's got canned foods on one end and diapers and motor oil on the other, and it's always ridiculously overpriced because they know if you're buying stuff like that here it's an emergency, “Look at grocery stores and shit first, especially in their clearance section. It’s a life saver.”

She is silent, vigilant, watching him starkly, “I can't exactly be seen in a walmart, now can I?” She responds gruffly, looking away and folding her arms. How long had it been since she’d tried to kill him and his entire family? Why did she look so thin?

He picks up the can and weighs it in his hand and she jerk sharply to face him, eyes narrowed as if she knows he’d been entertaining the idea of smacking her over the head with it, before he grabs a few more, gathering them up into his arms, sweeping up a bottle of soap and a hairbrush too- not subtly, he’s aware, but he doesn’t care much. He Takes them up to the counter, dumping them in front of the man, who scans them without looking up, bagging them absently as donald pays. She's lurking in the corner of his vision, curious and confused and guarded when he holds out the bag.

“Take it.” He says and it feels like swallowing sandpaper, to offer her anything. She stares for a long moment, eyebrows drawing together, “Take it before I change my mind.” He snaps and she reaches for it then, and he recognizes the shame in the tightness of her frown. her fingers come too close and he drops the bag before she can touch him, grimacing as she stumbles to catch it.

She doesnt say thanks and he doesn't expect it, and he notices the green to her feathers had faded, the strange wrongness to her eyes is gone. She looks almost normal. He refuses to pity her, but he still empathizes with her, and hates her a little more for it. She stands beneath the too-bright lights, looking tired and worn, looking entirely unlike herself. They stare at each other. The cashier flips a page on his magazine. There’s nothing to say, really, and she takes a step back, out the door.

She disappears into the darkness just outside the gas stations overhang, bare bulbs and broken lights casting strange shadows across the ground. He stands in the air conditioning for half a second longer before following her outside, ripping open the door to his car, throwing himself into the driver's seat. He breathes for a long moment. Then he promptly throws a tantrum, yelling and banging on his steering wheel, because fuck it all, right? He was so stupid! This was so stupid! AAA!

When he’s done, hes breathing hard, and he can see the attendant peering at him through the windows suspiciously. He puts the car in gear and peels out.

He gets halfway to the manor before he realizes he never got his pep.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t wake up to an alarm, he doesn’t have one set, but the sun slanting through the curtains is annoying enough to pull him back to the land of the living. He’s in his old room, in the manor, and the strangeness of it is always a little too overpowering for him to fall back asleep no matter how late he’d stayed up the night before. The houseboat repairs were coming together slowly, too slowly, and until it was safe to stay in again he was stuck in this room. When he’d been younger, about ten or eleven, he’d shared a room with Della. Once they’d both graduated into teenagers, they’d been able to choose their own rooms in the mansion- donald always suspected Della hated rooming alone.

His old room was mostly barren, stripped out and cleaned when he’d shipped out all those years ago, and even now only the bare minimum was here- a bed, an old dresser with half the knobs broken off, a bedside table that wobbled… the furniture had all been mint, once upon a time, but he wasn’t exactly a careful person, and these old things only served to prove that.

He squints against the light, groaning, how late had he stayed up? He stiffens as what exactly he’d been up to last night flood his brain, half convinced it was a dream- he scrambles to snatch up his phone, opening his bank app and cringing at the hole in his checking account. So. he really had spent actual real life money… on Magica De Spell. The same Magica who had happily tried to kill his entire family. He smacks his pillow over his face and screams into it, letting it fall sideways off the bed once he’d finished freaking out again. Well, one and done, right? It’s not like he would see her again after that. Just… don’t go back to that gas station. Obviously.

He drags himself out of bed, stretching and cracking his back, and debates on taking a shower or not before hopping in. He puts on the sailors outfit again and doesn’t dwell on how much he missed the navy, walking down the stairs to the dining room, feeling all at once unused to the manor, still not quite comfortable living inside again. He steps on the stair that squeaks, cringing at the sound. When he’d been younger, he’d known to avoid that one, but over time he’d forgotten again.

There’s a yellow post-it-note on the dining room door, written in blue sharpie and most likely left by Huey because he was thoughtful in that sort of way.

_Adventuring with Uncle Scrooge! Be back soon!_

Right. Sometimes it felt like he was twenty-four and living on his own again. Of course that house had burned down so hopefully this wouldn’t be exactly like that time…

He works on the houseboat for the rest of the day, taking a break to eat half a bag of trail mix and send in applications to a few more places. He needed to get a job. His disability check wasn’t much, and he was already pushing the VA’s generosity considering he didn’t even need his cane anymore. He scrolls through facebook for another half an hour before he gets back outside, working at the ship again. If he kept up this work pace, he could get it back into the water before next month rolled around, then it would just be cosmetic instead of structural.

He shouldn’t have helped her. It’s the only thing he can think about, but he can't dismiss the way she had looked, haggard and tired, a reflection of himself after taking on the boys, and yet he can't forgive himself for offering her those cans. He should have left her to rot. If scrooge or, heaven forbid, the kids ever discovered what he’d done… they’d be livid, and rightfully so. Not only did he not stop her or call the police or anything, he also actively helped her out!

He misses the nail and hit his thumb with the hammer, squawking and jumping around the backyard and shaking his hand out. Karma!

There's a slam and he stops jumping, pressing his thumb to the roof of his mouth and glancing back towards the house.

Webby waves from the open doorway, “Uncle Donald!” She calls, “Dinner’s ready!”

He jogs over to the door, taking the handle in his hand so she didn’t have to hold it any longer, “Thanks webby! When did everyone get home?”

“Only a couple of hours ago,” She chirps, taking the lead back to the dining room, “We went to canada to hunt down the stone of the Dragon!”

“Did you find it?”

She grins at him real wide, “Of course we did! There was the huge labyrinth maze with tons of traps-” he zones her out not because he doesn’t care what shes saying, but because he’s pretty sure if he listens to the types of horrors in that maze he’ll bubble-wrap the triplets head-to-toe and never allow them out of his sight again.

He may not hear every word she says, but he doesn't notice when she stops talking altogether. Her voice gets quieter and quieter until she trails off completely, even slowing down in her walk, staring pensively at the floor. He stops and she follows his lead without thinking, not bothering to look up, a deeply troubled look on her face. She twists a lock of hair in her fingers.

“Is everything alright?” He tries, eyebrows drawing when she doesn’t reply, “Webby?”

She jumps at her name, “oh, huh, what?” She looks around, realizing halfway through her actions she’d zoned out, “Sorry, Mr. Duck,” she kicks the ground sheepishly, “I just got a little lost in my thoughts I guess.”

He frowns at the formality of his name- she almost always called him Uncle Donald now, something must be wrong, “would you like to share?” he asks her quietly. She reaches up to rub her arm, looking unsure.

“...We passed the coat closet Lena always hid in when we played hide and seek.” She admits finally, “It was always the same one. She always used to say it was for convenience sake, but i think maybe she just didn’t like being away from me.”

Donald smile sympathetically, “She sounded like a good friend.” He says softly, touching her shoulder.

“She’s my best friend.” Webby replied, somber, “I miss her a lot.”

Donald feels a bad taste in the back of his mouth, understanding acutely how deeply he had hurt Webby by helping Magica- and how she didn’t even know it. He resolves to be a better Uncle to her from now on- he knows he can get wrapped up in his own shit, and that he’s probably been too caught up in fixing the house boat to focus on the kids, something he wanted to rectify immediately. They deserved better.

“It’ll be alright, Webby.” He says, holding out his arms if she wanted a hug, “You just need time.” he says, because he know it- he’s been through it too, losing someone you care about.

She accepts the offer, leaping up so he can catch her, “Thanks, Uncle Donald.” She says, voice wobbling only slightly. He holds her tight, offering what comfort he could. The light above them casts strange shadows, there’s a flicker of movement, just barely enough to catch and he only see it because of how he was staring at the wall, deep in thought-

It had been so slightly, maybe she shifted and the fabric of her skirt moved with her, maybe when she cried her hair feel just enough to cause a flicker in the black silhouette outlined beneath them. It could have been a million different things, and nothing else happens, no movement big or small. Nothing. It was just a trick of the light, it was just his tired eyes, it was just the sleep deprivation.

It was nothing.

Lena stared back from the shadows, unable to speak, and begged someone to see her.

“Come on, Webs, let go get some dinner huh?” He sets her down and pulls away, smoothing her hair down with his palm, “You must be hungry after an adventure like that.”

She wipes at here eyes and smiles, nodding a little, “I could eat.”

“Well, in that case, maybe if you’re still snackish after dinner I could take you and the boys out for ice cream...”

Her eyes go round, “From Clarabelle’s frozen treats?” she asks, giddy.

“If that's what you’re craving, kiddo.” He smiles, pushing open the door to the dining room and watching Webby bound inside to tell his boys the good news.

That night, while he’s working on the houseboat again, underneath the heat of the flood lamps, he doesn’t think about Magica. He doesn’t! He does not even worry about her a little bit. Nope. not at all.

He thinks about the shadows on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Everything I know about the VA (veterans Association) comes from my brothers irl experience. I did a little bit of research as well to make this fanfic about anthropomorphic ducks more realistic.
> 
> (In my head canon, Donald fractured his femur on duty and the doctor passed it off as fine. It didn’t heal right and caused the cartilage in his knee to break down from excess friction. He needed total knee replacement surgery.)


	3. Chapter 3

There a certain strangeness to a grocery store right when it opens, 6 am, at the edge of dawn. There’s workers milling about, pallets of product parked in the middle of aisles as they stock the shelves making it impossible to navigate, zombie personnel shuffling around the store determined to avoid him. The girl on the only open register in the store busies herself flipping through the paper, familiarizing herself with the coupons, sneaking texts on her phone when her managers weren’t looking. Donald had been up late, once again- the houseboat practically water ready now, though he hadn’t been up all night because of the boat. Not this time. On their last adventure, Louie had caught something- he was running a fever, coughing, barely able to sleep with chills and body ache, and Scrooge hadn’t had any childrens flu medication. He’d made do with what he did have, carefully measuring out the proper dosage for a child, and once Louie had finally passed out he’d jumped in his car and come here.

The triplets all had the tendency of hiding their symptoms until they were practically bedridden, a habit Donald was in an uphill battle to break them of, and even now Louie had insisted he was fine until he almost coughed up a lung at the dinner table.

He walks down the medication aisle absently, feet dragging as his exhaustion started to catch up with him. He didn’t always stay up with the triplets when they’d catch something, but Louie had been a sickly child and had needed lots of supervision as a baby, and Donald had never been able to shake that urge to make sure he was alright. He’d gone back and forth between comforting louie and messaging Jose and Panchito for their upcoming trip to see the Festival of the Flower when louie managed to doze enough to allow it, keeping his fluttering nerves occupied. He glances over the wall of medication, snatching up the generic brand cold and flu relief. He pauses. Should he get name brand? It was only a few dollars cheaper, and it was on sale if he bought three, he would get two dollars off. But did he really need that many? What if louie and huey got sick too, then he could use the, but what if webby got sick too? Then he wouldn’t have enough-

Oh my god. Stop thinking so much.

He shakes his head, tired already of his own antics, and sticks with his first choice. He walks around a bit longer, grabbing some orange juice and ginger ale, reading the trashy articles out of a tabloid he doesn’t plan to buy. According to this totally reputable and respectable news source, Scrooge and Glomgold were secretly engaged. Classic. He’s in the middle of reading another made up story when he turns down the clearance aisle.

She looks over right as he glances up and they lock eyes.

He debates on whether or not he wants to book it, just turn right around and bail, but his stupid shopping cart is a bit too clunky to maneuver properly. Abandon it? He could, but then he’d have to go get all this stuff again which would take effort and time-

“Hey.” Magica says, she makes a face and he can tell she's cursing herself for opening her mouth, “uh. Reading anything fun?” She follows it up eloquently, motioning to the magazine in his hand.

He shrugs as he comes closer, because he is not smart, and holds it out for her to see, “Just reading about my affair with Miss Beakley.” Magica snorts at the photo plastered on the page, it’s him and Beakley in the middle of an argument, the camera snapped mid-blink so they both looked like they were giving each other bedroom eyes, “As you can see we’re very serious. April first, save the date.”

Magica rolls her eyes, “April fools day. Witty.”

He tosses the magazine into his cart, “I never said I was a comedian.” he grumbles, glancing around the clearance section, “So you took my advice?”

She looks at him sharply, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. It’s only now that he realizes she does look better. Not great, but she isn’t quite as sickly thin, and her hair lays not quite so brittle as before. She looks healthier. It sends a spark of anxiety through his chest, makes his fingers stiffen around the shopping cart. Weeks ago her gauntness made him worried, and yet now his chest swelled with apprehenion over her wellness and her potential.

“Maybe.” She says eventually, turning to the side, just enough to keep him in her peripheral, eyes drawn to his cart, “Someone sick?”

The overhead intercom click on, a man drones into it, announcing deals or something equally as insignificant in this moment. His heart beats in his chest too loudly, aware acutely that she is the enemy and he must not belie any weakness. “No,” He lies simply, “I just tend to worry. Better safe than sorry.

Her beak quirks and her eyes spark, “Yes, better safe than sorry.”

She walks down the aisle, looking at the markdowns. He followers her slowly, staring at the products but not quite seeing anything. He thinks about the kids, about Louie, about-

“Magica-” He starts.

She jumps, whipping around to face him, “ _Shhh!_ ” she snaps, pressing her finger to her beak, “Are you nuts? You can’t just- say my name! In public! Are you _trying_ to insight a witch hunt?”

He holds his hands up in surrender, “Sorry! Sorry, I wasn’t thinking about it.” But now that he was, he couldn’t quite shake the knowledge that she was putting herself in incredible danger just by staying. She had no reason to trust him not to shout out her location, but she did. Well, her magic was too much for him to defend himself against alone, she probably just figured he wanted to live. Which he did.

“What?”

He frowns, “huh?”

“What do you want?” She rolls her eyes, “You said my name?”

“Oh.” He swallows, turning to study a can on the shelf. Green beans that expire tomorrow. “What happened to Lena?”

He watches her still out of the corner of his eyes. The radio overhead hums quietly, playing some pop song Donald wasn’t hip enough to recognize. She won't look at him, carefully turning away from him actually. She’s wearing sandals, black with polka dot pattern on the strap across the top, and the same pink jacket as before, he hair is longer but just barely. She looks so normal, like someone he’d pass on the street and not give a second glance. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

“She’s gone.” She says finally, turning just enough for him to see the curve of her beak, expression inscrutable.

“You’re sure?”

She whips around to face him, “What do you know?” She snaps, and he sees her fingertips spark with purple, eyes wild and dark.

He lets go of the cart, holding his hands in front of him, ready for a fight.

Jingle bells starts playing over the loudspeaker.

They hold for about a second before they each break, “Are you serious?” Magica throws her hands up, “Who can have a fight while _Jingle Bells_ is playing? it's _barely_ November!” the tension bleeds out of the moment, leaving them both hollowed out and tired.

Donald rolls his eyes this time, letting his fists drop, “They have no appreciation for proper throwdown ambiance.”

“Ugh, you’re still here?” Magica turns to look at the canned goods again, “I thought you’d have run with your tail tucked between your legs by now. You do realize I’m your mortal enemy, right?”

“Hey! I’m not that much of a coward,” He gripes, crossing his arms on top of his cart, “And y’know, a ‘Thank You’ might be nice! I did help you out.”

“If you’re looking for gratitude then you’ve come to the wrong evil witch,” She snaps, side eyeing him, “And it's kinda selfish, isn’t it? To help someone out under the guise of getting something out of them later?”

“Wh- i’m asking for basic manners, not your social security number!”

“Still. I thought you were above that.” She sniffs.

He sits up, grabbing his cart and backing out of the aisle “You are insufferable.”

“Takes one to know one!”

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

“I thought you were going to say something else!” she shoots back haughtily, crossing her arms like a petulant child.

“Whatever!” He steers his cart away, glowering at any innocent passerby. He hated Magica De Spell! Why couldn’t she just shop other places, or even leave Duckburg? They say the trees change colors in St. Canard around this time of year, can’t she go enjoy that or something?

He carefully avoids thinking about how he lets her get away… Again.

"I am going to get myself killed." He snarls, angrily scanning a bag of cough drops.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s winter now for real, they’re in the thick of december, and it was supposed to snow later this week. Donald keeps an eye on the forecast, he knows he has to fix up some of the drafts in the houseboat before it gets much colder, it was already bitterly miserable in the nighttime and his ditzy little plug in heater was barely keeping him from freezing. He had planned on fixing it up today, still hoped to get around to that later, but as the days grew shorter and colder and dimmer he felt the toll it was taking on his mind, and then Dewey told him how Huey hadn’t gotten out of bed until noon and DOnald knew he’d have to postpone his work at least for the day.

When the houseboat had first blown up all those months ago, what felt like a lifetime ago, Donald had been afraid of something else going wrong and had moved a lot of important or expensive things out of the boat and into a storage unit. He’d already been paying for the storage unit, it had a lot of Dellas old things in it, or stuff he’d saved from their parents and other extended family members, and it had been a tight squeeze to add anything else but he’d done it anyway. After the ship had gone down, he’d never been more grateful- it had saved a lot of special heirlooms and photos, as well as some other things.

He knocks on the triplets door softly before opening it slowly, “Hey, Hue.” he says softly, smiling at him.

Huey is laying in bed, loose limbed and exhausted, “Hi Uncle Donald.” He mumbles, turning over onto his side.

“I went and got something out of storage for you, buddy.” Donald tells him, dragging over a table to set up the lamp.

Huey perks up a little at the site, “You mean it wasn’t ruined when the houseboat sank?”

“No, I had it somewhere else,” He flips it on and the room is bathed in warmth and light, he reaches up and lifts huey up from the top bunk and sets him gently onto Louie's bed, sure the youngest wouldn’t mind.

Huey was sensitive to light, always had been, and over the years Donald had picked up how sluggish and dull Huey got during the winter. They'd done therapy and, at the therapist recommendation, Donald had bought a sun lamp for huey. He used it only a handful of times in the winter, when it was hard to get out of bed, and it always made him feel better, got him back on his feet. DOnald sits with him, feels the warmth from the lamp brighten his own feathers.

He’s sitting on the floor against their bunkbed, leaning back and lightly dozing, when Huey wraps his arms around him, “Thanks, Uncle Donald. I feel a lot better now.”

Donald twists until he can hug him back, scooping him off the bed to hold him closer, “I’m happy to hear it!”

There’s a hesitant knock at the door, Donald and Huey both look up, “Hey um, Dewey and Webby found an old map in the attic, Uncle Scrooge is gonna take us to see if we can find the treasure,” Louie says, scuffing the carpet with his feet and looking hopeful, “Did you want to come, Huey?”

Huey and Donald exchange a look, “Yeah,” Huey smiles, “Just let me change into a fresh shirt!” he hops out of Donalds arms to get ready.

They sweep out of the house in a rush, and Donald makes sure to flip off the lamp before he leaves the room. Even with everyone leaving, he feel better than he has all season. Seems like Huey wasn’t the only one who needed a little sun…

He stretches, popping his back, and makes himself a quick lunch. The day was still young, he had tons of time to work on the houseboat, hopefully with some time to spare! He was supposed to help launchpad with some christmas shopping sometime this week. Hanukkah had ended a few days ago and he’d be back from visiting family soon. He steps outside and shivers, before grabbing his tools and starting to work.

He wouldn’t have had to do so much repair work if he’d just taken his time to begin with, but he’d just wanted out of the manor, and now he was paying for it. Cold brushes the back of his neck and he shudders, resolves to get his good winter coat once he was done with this last little bit- it was a particularly hard spot, right along the edge of the bow, where the board poked out and let in cold air. He leaned over, reaching out to smack it with his hammer until it laid flat. He tosses the hammer back on the deck without looking and peers at the board-

“Hey! Are you _trying_ to kill me?” Magica snaps, about two feet behind him.

Donald, gracefully, panics and falls out of the boat.

The water is a shock to his system, it overwhelms him for a moment until he remembers none too gently that he needs air to live. He pinwheels his arm, flips upside down completely at one point, before he finally manages to break the surface. He sputters, heaving air, blinking the water out of his eyes as he doggy paddles over to the side of the pool to haul himself out, sprawling across the concrete trying to catch his breath, except it's barely a relief to be out of the water, the stone saps his heat faster than the pool.

“A-a-are _you_ trying to kill _m-me_?” He snaps, trembling as the water rolls off his feathers, pushing himself up onto his knees. His shirt was soaked through.

“For once, no.” Magica says, leaning on the railing of the boat, resting her cheek in her palm, “And i’m not the one who’s throwing hammers at people.” she points out.

“I didn’t throw it at y-you,” He grouses, standing up and rounding the pool to get back on his boat, intent on getting out of the wet clothes, “I didn’t e-even know you were there!” his teeth chatter.

“Tomato, to-mah-to.” She shrugs.

“No it is not!” he trudges up the ramp, wobbling down the stairs and ignoring the fact that she’s following him. He opens the closet next to the bathroom and grabs a hoodie. There’s a pause as he holds the clothing and stares at her, standing awkwardly in his kitchen, “D-do you mind?” He asks obviously, shaking the hoodie so she gets the idea.

“...oh!” She nods, face pinking in embarrassment, looking away and holding a hand up so he was sure she wasn’t peeking, “Yes, of course, go ahead.”

It’s not like it was immodest to change infront of someone, they were ducks after all, but it was more courtesy than anything else. He wouldn't have given it a second thought if it was anyone else, but in front of Magica he would have felt vulnerable without something on, and he appreciated her looking away. He shrugs the hoodie on, already feeling better in dry clothes, and tosses his wet shirt into the laundry bin in the bathroom. He feels leauges better already.

Now that he’s not singly focused on getting warm, he realizes with crawling dread that Magica De Spell was in his kitchen, and feels cold again all at once.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, hands stilling on the doorway to the bathroom, tense. The landline was across the room, hanging up by the fridge, and his cell was in the tool kit on deck. If she chose to attack, he could probably hit her with one of the hundreds of pictures he had hanging up, that might at least surprise her enough for him to get away.

“I’m not here to try anything, so stop with that tone of yours.” She glances at him through her fingers before letting her hand drop, turning to face him fully, “I came here because I needed to say something important.”

He can't necessarily trust her, “You understand my skepticism.”

“You’re smarter than I took you for,” she muses and he scowls.

“Can’t we do this outside? This feels like a trap.”

“Outside? Were your housekeeper and ghost-butler can see us if they pass any windows at all?” Magica says flatly, “Sure lets do it outside, good one there Don. Genius.”

“You’re the one who came to the manor!” He snaps, “Scrooge could see you.”

“Scrooge and the kids are out, aren’t they? I saw them leave.” She looks almost nervous.

“Oh my god you’re stalking me.”

“I’m not- you-” She throws up her arms in resignation, “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”

“Fine, fine! What?” he edges forward, stepping past her with false bravado and he fills up the kettle with water, just something to keep his hands busy, to hide the shake. He sets it on to boil before he registers that she hasn’t spoken yet. He turns around to face her, wary, and finds her standing there, fists clenched, glaring at the floor, “Magica?” He says quietly, unsure.

“Thank you.” She says finally, shoulder sagging, looking up at him with doe-eyes.

His brains stutters to a halt, “What?”

“At the supermarket, you were right. I should have said Thank you for helping me, because you really got me out of a tough spot.”

“What- no! Don’t thank me!” He panics, clutching his hoodie strings.

“Wh- huh? Why? I thought you wanted this!” she motions to the words between them, confused.

He runs a hand through his hair, “If you thank me, then that means i helped you!”

“Yes? Because you did??” She looks puzzled.

“And i’m the worst uncle in the whole world!” He bemoans, looking distraught.

“I'm not sure I know what's going on in this conversation.” Magica says flatly.

He sighs, and the panic leaves him with it, “ you were my worst enemy, and when i helped you I betrayed my family. When you said thank you it just... solidified that fact.”

She looks at him strangely, “...’were?’”

He blinks, not expecting that response, “huh?”

“You said ‘you were my worst enemy,’ as if I’m… not your worst enemy anymore.”

“I… I didn’t mean... “ the kettle whistles and he almost stumbles over himself to take it off the stove, anything to distract him from his rising panic. It was just a slip of the tongue, a small mistake. It didn’t meant anything. He didn't actually mean it. He _hated_ Magica De Spell, he always had, with her black dress and immaculate hair and cruelty.

Except this Magica, the one who stood in his kitchen, was wearing loose jeans and a red sweatshirt and old tennis shoes, and this Magica had her hair pulled back into a messy bun, and this Magica struggles to make ends meet, and this Magica says thank you, had come here with the sole intention of it. He can't bring himself to say he hates this woman, strange and vulnerable in his home. His hands shake as he flips the stovetop off. He grabs two mugs from the cupboard, pouring them each a cup of tea to stall instead of turning to face her.

“There’s something else.” Magica says uncertainty, as if someone had yanked the rug out from underneath her.

He holds out the second cup, “What is it?”

She crosses the room, and silently take the cup from him, swirling the water in the cup instead of talking as if she were debating telling him at all.

He spoons sugar into his cup until its sweet enough, motions for her to do the same if she’d like.

“I lied, when we talked at the store.” she says quiet, sipping from her mug, feigning nonchalance, “About Lena. I said she was gone. I lied.”

Donald straightens, setting his cup on the counter, “She’s not gone?” he thinks of Webby and the strange shadow she cast, he knows they were close.

“I couldn’t dispel her completely, she’s part of my magic and when she was fighting against me she split my powers down the middle. I was just able to strip her physical body.” Magica admits uncomfortably, “She's alive.”

“Magica… Thank you.” he says, surprised at his own sincerity.

“Mr. Duck?” Launchpad calls down the stairs, from the deck of the ship, “Is it alright if I come down?” And Launchpad, that loveable oaf, doesn’t wait for a response before he starts down the stairs anyway.

Donald doesn’t pause to panic, He grabs Magica’s wrist, feeling his feathers rise involuntarily as her magic flashes in alarm, like static electricity. He pulls her deeper into the houseboat, yanking open the coat closet and pushing her inside. “Stay quiet, i’ll get rid of him!” he says sharply, closing the door silently. He pauses just long enough to register she'd brought her tea with her and has to keep himself from laughing about it.

Launchpad rounds the stairs and Donald walks forward too, as if leaving his room, stretching, “Hey Launchpad,” He says, punctuating it with a fake yawn, “I was just taking a nap. Glad to see you made it home in one piece.”

“It’s nice to be back,” Launchpad smiles brightly, “I was hoping we could go Christmas shopping? I don’t have a lot of time back, I’m off to St. Canard later this week.”

“Oh? Visiting more family?” Donald steers him away from the kitchen, hoping the pilot wouldn’t notice the fresh cup of tea on the counter that would prove his little story about a nap a complete lie. He should have picked a better cover story!! Argh!

“Well, I live in St. Canard when I’m not on call for Mr. McDee!” Launchpad smiles, “I’ve got the rest of the month off though, to spend Christmas with my Boyfriend and his daughter.”

Donald finds himself faltering in genuine surprise, “Really? I had no idea. Well, I knew Scrooge hired someone to fill in for you… you’ve never mentioned them before.”

“That just means we need to hang out more,” Launchpad smiled, “And don’t worry! I’ll be back Christmas night to spend it with you guys! You’re my family too.”

He blink back wetness from his eyes, “I think of you as family too.” Donald says and means it, “Uhm, just, let me get dressed properly and I’ll help you find some stuff for the kids.”

Launchpad smiles and nods, “Sounds like a plan! I’ll wait for you by the car.” he trots back up the stairs, and Donald waits until he can’t hear his footsteps anymore to rush over to the closet.

“You locked me in the closet?” Magica hisses when he opens the door, straightening out the black jacket she was wearing.

“It wasn’t locked!” He defends, “I had to keep him from finding you!”

“And you had a little chat with him while I was stuck in there with the mothballs!” She snaps, slamming her cup down on the counter, “About _family_ , too! Ugh, I was afraid you’d bore me to death.”

“What’s your problem?” Donald steps away, angry, the atmopshere shift making him tense.

“I forgot how annoying you and your entire clan are!” Magic bares her teeth, “That whole conversation has been a harsh reminder!”

“What don’t you just leave then! The door is right there, I don’t want you here!” He shouts, waving his arms.

“I will!” She snarls, storming over to the staircase, zipping up her coat as she went.

“Good riddance!”

“And Donald?” She stops, hand on the railing, face twisted, “Thank you for the tea!”

“Get out!” he snaps, throwing a fridge magnet the shape of a banana where her head used to be. She disappears outside.

He stomps around the house for a few minutes, changing into a t-shirt and a flannel, fuming over her words, but he’d promised to go shopping with Launchpad and he didn’t want to keep him waiting. He yanks open the closet door and flicks through the clothes, looking for his good black winter coat, but he can’t seem to actually… Find… It.

She stole his jacket didn’t she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter focuses more on the kids! thats something to look forward to! Lena incoming...
> 
> Check out this amazing fanart! https://launchpadmcfuck.tumblr.com/post/181261616294/ive-been-really-enjoying-transdonaldduck-s-fic Taylor really captured Magicas look, and the art is superb!


	5. Chapter 5

Webby is good at a great deal of things- rock climbing, tactical assault, bedazzling jean jackets, and distracting herself. She’d spent a lot of time alone in the mansion before the triplets had shown up, and out of all her talents, she was confident that keeping herself occupied was one of her greatest strengths. Why she was sitting on the floor of her room, colorful threat and projects going unmade as she stared listlessly at the floor, she didn’t really understand. When she’d gotten out all the items one needed to make friendship bracelets, she’d been excited to start on them, one for each of her new brothers, but now… strangely, the thrill had left her. It's not that she didn't want to make them all matching bracelets, of course not, but the strings all spread out on the floor in front of her painted a familiar scene, one that hurt almost, to remember. The last time she’d made these things was when she made them for Lena.

Webby has always been good at distracting herself, but lately its been harder and harder not to think of her friend. She looks away from the floor, up at the colorful lights run across the crown molding on her ceiling, thinks about christmas gifts for a certain pink haired girl.

She shoves the bundles of color under her bed, haphazard, sure she’ll hear about if later from Granny and gathers herself up to find the boys. No one can distract better than them, and Webby desperately doesn’t want to think about her own problems right now, it still hurt.

They’re in their room, all bundled up on bean bag chairs, the sunlamp flooding the room with warm light. Huey using the light to write in his junior woodchucks guidebook, probably cataloging some of their more recent adventures, and the other two re absorbed in Louie cell phone messing around with some app.

“Hey guys!” Webby greets, chipper as ever, “What are you up to?”

Huey’s the first to look up, smiling at her, “Just writing down the information we learned on our last adventure! As for them, they’re obsessed with this new fighting game.” he tells her, “What’ve you been doing?”

“Working on christmas presents,” She says, flopping back onto her own beanbag, “Man, your lamp feels amazing.” she notes, stretching out under it.

“One of the best things Uncle Donald ever bought,” Louie answers absently, glued to his phone.

Huey goes back to writing, Dewey downloads the app on his phone and Louie keeps on playing. Its quiet, and warm, and of all the times to be silent, of all the times to allow her room to think... Granny once told her grief was like waves, it comes and goes. Granny also told her if the tide rises, and you feel lost and alone, you should reach out, because your friends will help her swim. It feels like her bean bag has been lifted by the water and dragged out to open water.

“Hey guys?” She says, twiddling her thumbs and trying not to get seasick, “I miss Lena.”

Huey closes his book and Louie and Dewey put away their phones.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dewey asks, leaning forward.

“I… I don’t know.” She admits, “I’ve kept it all bottled up for so long… and the other day I talked to Uncle Donald about it and now its like I can’t keep it all inside anymore. I miss her so much but it hurts to think about her so i’ve just been trying not to.”

“Talking about it might make you feel better.” Huey suggests kindly.

“Try and remember the good times.” Louie offers.

Webby laughs a little, feeling tears burn her eyes, “With Lena, they were all good times!” Webby leans forward to, resting her elbows on her knees, staring at her friendship bracelet. The sun lamp cuts across her feathers sharply, reflecting off of her, turning her white as a ghost. She casts a black shadow across the wall that seems to flicker at the edges.

She realizes suddenly that she held Lena in her heart, locked away and hidden, trying to spare herself from the pain of loss, but by keeping her so buried she’d almost lost her in a different way. She wanted to remember Lena, she didn’t ever want to forget her, despite the pain. She feels it fill her up, all her emotions she’d smothered, “She was my best friend.” She says and, for the first time since lena had disappeared, truly remember her friend- all of her, freely, no matter how much it hurt. It makes her feel warm and cold all at once, it makes her feel gounded, and closer to Lena than she's been in a long time.

“Webby!” Dewey gasps, eyes fixed on a point behind her.

Her shadow, cast black and harsh against the wall, the sun lamp sharpening the edges, writhes. Webby leaps up, unsure of the mass before her, backing away towards the sunlamp, causing it to grow andchange in front of her.

“What is that?” Huey shouts, startled and unsure.

And before their eyes, the void before them takes shape. An arm first, then the next, the blackness seeming to settle into the limbs like tar- and then finally a beak, a head, a floppy haircut. The apparition cast onto the wall opens its eyes, all a deep, bright red.

Webby doesn’t pause to wipe her tears, leaping forward, “Lena!” She cries, reaching out towards the wall.

“Webby!” Lena matches her, smile cutting into her form.

“You’re alive?” Louie asks, grunting when Huey elbows him in the arm at the comment.

Webby stops just short of her, dragging a hand across her face, “We thought you were dead!” she tells her earnestly.

Lena shakes her head, “I know, i’ve been your shadow this whole time.”

“But wasn’t Magicas staff destroyed? You were part of you magic, now that she has none shouldn’t you have…”

“Not exactly, magic doesn’t work like that.” Lena explains, “She used her staff to channel and store her magic, it's part of the reason she was able to create me even though she was stuck as a shadow herself. The gem held the most of her magic and because of that she was able to use it as a window. Magic takes time to build up and a lot of witches use staffs so they have a reserve on hand, when you broke the staff it took away her power but not permanently.”

“But if we got rid of the staff, wouldn’t that include you?” Huey edges closer, curiosity drawing him in. Uncle Scrooge never really explained magic, not like this, and especially not Magicas.

“How are you here?” Webby agrees and, finally, reaches out and touches the wall.

Lena's eyes bleed from red to a bright, vivid blue, and she smiles, “This is how. Our friendship.” She says, blinking her blue eyes, “Magica gave me free will but not enough to disobey her at her most powerful, our friendship gave me that ability, and when the staff was destroyed it gave me the strength to stay.”

“Lena you beautiful vision of strength! I’d hug you if I could!”

“I’m not much of a hugger,” Lena smiles softly, eyes twinkling.

Louie sniffles loudly, breaking the moment noticably, “What?" He motions to the two, "This is really sweet!”

“Yeah, it is, but I have another question-” Dewey says, stepping forward, “Where have you been?”

“Oh.” Webby says, realization like a lightning strike, “If our friendship saved you, then all this time i’ve been bottling it up has… kept you bottled up too.”

“...Yes,” Lena says, as if it’s a great pain to admit, “You didn’t know.”

“But I do now.” She says firmly, voice steeling, “And i’ll do whatever it takes to bring you back!”

“How do we get you back?” Dewey asks, flopping back into his beanbag.

Lena frowns, moves away from Webby and the blue flickers and fades from her eyes until their red once more, “Look at me. I’m still part of Magica.” She shakes her head, “I’ve scoured every book on magic I could get my hands on… Magicas the only one who would bring me back, and she won’t. She was never going to.”

There's a somber air as they all contemplate what Lena’s said. Webby wants her friend back, desperately, there’s got to be another way.

“Every book you could get your hand on…” Huey murmurs, brightening, “But I bet you didn’t have access to Scrooge McDuck's personal library!”

Webby gasps, “Huey, you’re a genius!” She turns to Lena, grinning “There’s a library at the money bin with books on everything, if there’s another way to bring you back we’ll find it there!”

Lena sighs, “Webby…” She looks at her searchingly, “The possibility of finding another way…”

“I know.” Webby says, leaning forward to press her palm to the wall again, “But we have to try, at least.” they hold each others gaze for a heartbeat and Lena nods, smiling, almost hopeful.

She turns to the boys, “You guys don’t have to come-”

“Are you kidding?” Dewey grins, a spark of adventure in his eye.

“You really think I’m gonna miss out on the modern day library of alexandria?” Huey smiles, crossing his arms.

“You’re our sister,” Louie nods as if that explains everything, “We’re coming.”

Webby smiles, glancing back at Lena. they could do this, they had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, writing magic systems is hard!


	6. Chapter 6

It’s snowing.

That's not uncommon or strange, this time of year, in Duckburg. Donald could remember one or two christmas mornings where he and Della had been snowed in completely. Winter had always been the worst time of the year for donald, now that he was an adult and had responsibilities. They’d burn money keeping the houseboat warm, buying winter clothes and heavy coats, holiday food and gifts… of course he’d never trade those days for anything. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t difficult.

But the houseboat was empty now, and most of the drafts had been patched up. With the space heater he’d dug out of storage all hooked up and on it’s highest setting in the living room, it was almost cozy. He’d been out hanging christmas lights earlier, trudging around in the snow- it had only taken about half an hour for him to start getting truly chilled, and he’d stayed outside far past that. Coming inside to the warmth of his home made him almost cry in relief. He would have stayed inside all day if the notion alone didn’t drive him up the wall.

His insomnia was acting up again, as it always did around the holidays. He would stay up nights in a row, crash for a day, and then start right back up to not sleeping. Staying inside all day stuck wide awake meant too much time to think, and Donald would rather sleep outside than be alone with his thoughts. Now, however, driven inside by the cold and waiting on the dishwasher to finish so he had something to do, all he had to do was think.

And there was only one person he’d been able to think about lately.

“Despell.” He mutters distastefully, laying sideways on the couch, head pillowed on the one non-lumpy cushion.

Yes, he had a million other things to think about: christmas presents, that job interview coming up in january, renting out his room to someone who’s not a greek god- but no, the only person he could think about was his mortal enemy. She was definitely still his mortal enemy. Even if she said thank you. She terrorized his family and stole his one good winter coat so, he hated her, definitely.

Magica wasn’t someone he wanted to continue running into, but the information he’d learned last time she was here… Lena was alive, and Donald couldn’t bring himself to just let that tidbit go. He couldn’t condemn a child to a half-life. Lena was a good kid, a little misguided and definitely hurt, and Donald wanted to help her. The only one who could help her is the one person Donald’s sure wouldn’t even try… but if he gave up without attempting to convince her otherwise, he’s complicit, right? He and Magica have been on weird terms recently, maybe he can get her to actually agree to this, or at least convince her to help him find a way to bring her back himself.

The dishwasher finishes it’s cycle but Donald doesn’t hear it, too busy bundling himself up in coats and strapping his heaviest winter boots on. He had to go out and find her if he wanted to get her help, and he had no idea where to start. He clunks his way up to the deck and shivers, cold air punching him in the lungs. He’d already shoveled the houseboat and thanked his past self for that, but the ramp to the concrete had iced at some point, and of course he slipped and fell all the way down it. He was Donald Duck, he expected that to happen.

Scrooge opens the sliding glass door, glaring, “Oi, you’re not going to put up more of those christmas lights are you?” He snaps.

Donald brushes himself off, standing up, “Not yet!”

“...Where are you off to then?” He asks, leaning on his cane, actually curious.

“Christmas shopping.” Donald lies casually, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, “Roads are too icy to drive, I’m just gonna walk down to the store.”

Scrooge nods, and turns around but pauses, as if deciding on something. Oh man he wants to have a Conversation. A serious one. No thank you. Donald takes his cue to leave and books it, trying to put enough space between him and his Uncle before Scrooge worked up the nerve to turn around and start in on whatever hard topic he’d decided needs to be discussed. Donald already had one long talk he’d have to do today, he didn’t exactly want another stacked on top of that.

The snow slows him down, but he makes it far enough that Scrooge decides to broach the topic another day. Good. now it was time for the hard part, the search.

He went to all the places he knew off the top of his head, places he’d had to shack up at the one fall Scrooge had kicked him out of the house. They’d gotten into a terrible argument and Donald maaaaay have broken an expensive vase. After a month Della had forced them to work it out, but during his time away from the house he’d met a lot of people and slept a lot of different places. He knew this city probably better than Uncle Scrooge, and he took full advantage of that, scouring the places that kept warmest at night, asking around to see if anybody had seen her- not that he could get a lot of information that way. Beaks were tight around here.

He finished checking out the last place he knew of, under the bridge on 4th street. It was perfectly sheltered from the harsher weather- about four years ago the city had installed hostile architecture, spikes, and donald had come out in the middle of the night with a sledgehammer and ripped them up. She wasn’t here, or any of the other places he’d checked, and against his best efforts… he was starting to worry.

It was beginning to snow again, heavier this time, and Magica was stuck out in the snow, and probably had been all day. She had his coat, but even still, if she just sat out in the cold…

His fingers were starting to go numb, and he’d only been out for a few hours, he didn’t want to imagine what it was like for her outside the warm shelters he knew of, and the sun was starting to go down. He couldn’t search for her in the dark, and though he was worried, he knew he couldn’t keep looking. The cold was getting to him now as the sun dipped below the horizon, and he’d be no help if he ended up frozen too.

So, reluctantly, he trudged home.

He goes through the mansion first, too eager to get warm to take the time to walk around back, deciding to just go straight through. He takes off his boot at the front door, aware that keep them on would bring Beakleys ire but leaving them behind will bring Uncle Scrooge harping on his back. He’ll get them later. He shrugs off his wet hoodie, a round of snowfall having hit before he made it home, he was grateful he’d bundled up since his multiple layers had kept him warm. He was also grateful that someone had lit the fireplace, scuttling closer to get dry and warm.

He ached all over, the cold flaring up old injuries and making his muscles sore, sighing deeply as the fire eased his aches. He was too old to go looking around the city like this, Damn Magica.

“Donald?” Scrooge asks from the top of the stairs, wrapped up in his night robe, “Where have you been?” He grouses, making his way down the stairs.

“I told you I was at the store.” Donald replies, realizing too late he had no proof of that.

“Nae you weren’t.” Scrooge says stiffly, eyes narrowing, “I sent Launchpad to fetch you when the storms started back, buy you weren’t at any of the stores around the manor.”

He blinks at Scrooge, turns away sharply and stares at the fire, tries to think, “I couldn’t find what I was looking for so I went for a walk.”

Scrooge sees through him immediately “Until eleven?” he asks sourly, “Donald if you’re going to the bar-”

“I’m not.” Donald cuts in, drawing away from the fire, “I don’t drink anymore, not since the triplets hatched.”

“Still,” Scrooge insists, “Next time I want to know where you are.”

Donald frowns, “What am I? a prisoner here? Do i have to report in every time I want to go to the bathroom?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” He grouses, “I wanted to talk to you earlier, about you sleeping arrangements-” Scrooge starts.

“What’s wrong with the houseboat?” Donald interrupts again, crossing his arms, “Am I too far for you to keep an eye on?”

Scrooge makes a frustrated noise, “Stop putting words in my mouth!” He snaps, finally coming down the last few stairs.

“I’m sober, Uncle Scrooge.” Donald says finally, shoulders drooping, “And I’m home now. I just want to go to bed.”

His uncle sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, “How’d it get like this?” he mutters softly. Donald shifts uncomfortably, gaze dropping to the floor.

“Goodnight, Uncle Scrooge.” he says finally, slipping into the hallway.

He stops at the sliding door to the pool, sighing and dropping his head to the glass. Why was it so hard to get along with Uncle Scrooge? He thought after the shadow war, they’d be able to start repairing their relationship in earnest- and on game night they’d felt closer than ever… and yet now it felt like they were falling into old habits, arguing, and avoiding each other. They’d spent so long apart and changed so much that they didn’t recognize each other anymore, they both needed to get to know each other again in earnest.

But it was hard, and the tension was comfortable at this point. Natural.

It was complicated.

Donald opens the door and goes home, shuffling inside to make some tea and get the radiator started up so he could sleep in the living room with the warmth. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, hand still on the railing.

Magica De Spell sat up, peering at him over the back of his couch.


	7. Chapter 7

Something Donald knows he is not good at, like he knows he's not good at chess or keeping jobs or sinking a nail without hitting his thumb at least once, is talking. It’s no secret that even the most basic conversations for others is an uphill battle for him, whether it be rearranging his sentence to compensate for words he can’t pronounce due to his impediment, or other people dumbfounded expression when they can’t quite understand a word he says anyway. He doesn’t enjoy talking, especially long winded conversation late at night when he’d just walked half the city, when his exhaustion was starting to make his tongue feel heavy, and yet the universe won’t let him rest.

“Hey,” She says eloquently, wincing when her voice seems to boom across the living room, voice like a thunderclap in the silence.

“When did you get here?” He asks, shoulders slumping as he passes the living room into the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee.

She sits up, drawing her legs to her chest as she watches him brewing a cup in his old dinky coffee maker, keeping her feet off the floor, “A while. Since six?” She guesses.

His hand stops just sort of the handle to the pot, and he heaves a great big sigh, “You mean to tell me,” He grabs the coffee pot roughly, “I was out searching for you all night, and you were here the whole time?” he shakily pours his coffee, trying to calm down and be a normal rational person and not shatter his mug in his hand. All that cold, his confrontation with Scrooge, the worry- all for nothing!

“You were searching for me?” She tips her head, black hair pulled back into a ponytail, stray pieces around her temple framing her face. Her voice is carefully neutral, she's not trying to start a fight.

“...I wanted to talk to you about Lena,” He turns around to face her, leaning against the countertop and drinking his coffee black, “And when it started to snow and i couldn’t find you…”

She perks up, “Oh!” She says, and all pretense of indifference drops as she grins, “You were  _ worried _ about me!”

He rolls his eyes, feeling the familiar banter start to settle his temper, “You wish. I just didn’t want you to freeze to death before I got the chance to figure out the Lena situation.”

She fake-sniffles, placing a hand to her chest, “I’m touched!” his words catch up to her and she frowns, arm dropping to her lap, “What Lena situation?”

“The one where she’s alive?” Donald frowns, hip-checking himself off the counter and rounding the couch into the living room, sitting in the recliner to the left of his home intruder, “I wanted to ask if there was a way to separate her from your magic.”

It’s Magicas turn to roll her eyes, “You’re not stupid Donald, you know what happens if I free Lena.”

“You’d have to give up your magic,” He does know that, “But there’s got to be another way, right? There’s a million different ways to magically light a candle, but nothing for this?”

“You may be surprised to hear this, but not many sorcerers get themselves into this sort of predicament.” Magica snaps, “Besides, why does it even matter? Lena  _ isn’t real _ . She’s just a shadow, a projection of darkness. I give her a smidge of free will and she’s got everyone wrapped around her finger-”

Donald slams his cup down on the coffee table, belatedly thankful he’d finished the drink inside so he didn't splash and burn his hand, “Get out of my house.” he says lowly, fire and anger building over her callous words.

Magica balks, drawing away from him, “But- but it’s snowing!”

“You can use what magic you have left to keep warm, then.” He stands up, balling his fists at his side, “You can delude yourself into thinking Lena wasn’t her own person, but i won't let you talk that way in my home. So get out.”

She stands too, towering over him, glowering down at him. She’s stiff and tense, and Donald remembers all at once she doesn’t necessarily need him to allow her in his home- with one flick of her finger she could stay there without having to worry about him at all. His gut coils tight, fight or flight thrumming at the back of his head. She exhales shakily, expression of anger breaking suddenly and openly as her shoulders drop, “I can’t.” she says simply, bowing under the confession.

Donald blinks, surprise throwing him off, “Can’t what?”

“All the magic I’d built up was in that stupid stone, and all the magic I have in here-” She spreads her fingers roughly across her ribs, “Is being split down the middle and drained as fast as I can make it. Lena is feeding off me like a  _ parasite _ . I can't do anything more than parlour tricks- if you kick me out, i’ll freeze.”

“All those times you flashed your magic and threatened me…?” he asks, gobsmacked.

“A bluff.” She admits, face heating up in shame, sinking back down onto the couch, “I came here originally looking for you to ask if i could stay until the winter was over.”

He sits down too, thinking it all over. She had been suspiciously non-confrontational when he'd cirst come into the houseboat, trying to open him up to the idea of her staying there. With him. She’s wearing a blue sweatshirt and old jeans, his good coat, the one she stole, is draped across the back of the couch. She’d left her thrift store tennis shoes at the edge of the carpet. It’s all too big for her, almost like shes drowning in the clothes hanging awkwardly off her shoulders and pooling at her ankles. Pity tastes like copper on the back of his tongue.

"What about the others? We're eight steps away from the Manor and Scrooge."

She squirms a little, "It's _cold_." She defends half-heartedly.

He bites his cheek, tapping his fingers against his knee as he thinks, “You know my terms.” He exhales.

Her head jerks up sharply, surprised. She studies him, “Help you find another way to free Lena, and I can stay?” he nods and she shakes her head, “I’ve combed all my old spell books and then some, I couldn’t find a way. Though I wasn’t necessarily looking for a way to keep her alive…” she hums, tapping her chin in thought.

Donald perks up, “The money bin!” He realizes.

She gasps, “His number one dime! If we steal-”

“No no,” he waves his hand to stop her before she can get very far, “We won’t- no stealing. There will be no stealing!”

“Then I don’t understand why the money bin is important.”

“Uncle Scrooge has kept books from all his adventures, including a lot of one-of-a-kind spell books. One of those could have the spell we’re looking for.” he reasons.

Her eye sparkle, “One-of-a-kind spell books?” She smiles, hands fluttering excitedly in her lap. “Okay, temporary truce. I’ll help you look for a way to free Lena without severing my magic if you let me stay here.”

“And what’s you ulterior motive?” He stands up, grabbing his coffee cup and taking it to the kitchen.

“Ulterior motive?” She asks innocently, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“Don’t do that, it’s weird.” He starts to unload the dishwasher, making sure to keep her in line of sight so he can read her body language, “And yes, ulterior motive. Villains always have one.”

The playfulness fades from her eyes, “Like I said before, you’re not stupid Donald.”

He puts away a stack of plates carefully, “You’re trying to get to Lena.”

She watches him silently.

Lena is bound to Magica- under Magicas blessing and a short spell, Lena would be free at the price of Magicas power… but it works on the flip side too. Lena is bound to Magica, and if Magica can manipulate her into agreeing, she can get rid of Lena for good, and have her all her power back.

“I don’t think she’s here.” he tells her honestly.

Magica closes her eyes, “She is.” She says simply, a fact.

He sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair, “So if you’re gonna live here- Oh god, you really are gonna live with me aren’t you?” he gets the distinct sense he’s stepped into a burning building, and only time will tell when it’ll collapse on top of him.

She stretches out on the couch in response.

“We need to lay down some ground rules. One, no stealing my stuff.” He says, pointedly looking at his jacket.

“I’ve always had that.” She lies instantly.

“Rule number two, shut up.”

“Well that just seems unfair-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they were roomates


End file.
